Lost
by geckollama
Summary: Bilbo's doorbell rings a sixth time, and nobody - except Gandalf - seems to know who it is.
1. An Unexpected Visitor

"I'm sorry, I can't sign this."

Bilbo's words are met with silence. Trying to remain staunch under the partly disapproving, partly disappointed faces of the dwarves, he places the unsigned contract on the table and leaves the room.

He is just stepping into his bedroom when the bell rings.

Bilbo stops in his tracks, then, completely resigned to his fate by now, slowly turns around and walks back up the hallway.

Passing the doorway to the dining room, he sees the dwarves looking round at each other in surprise. Not another dwarf, then, he thinks as he pulls open the door for the sixth time that evening - probably one of the neighbours complaining about all the noise.

But it is not a hobbit, either. A young woman stands before him, and Bilbo involuntarily steps backwards, even though she is already hanging back slightly from the doorstep. She seems very tall to him, and her body is lean and clad in drab clothes that look like they have seen better days. Her long dark hair is tied back, a few strands hanging about her pale and angular face.

The stranger says nothing, simply studies him with two pale green eyes. Bilbo clears his throat and somewhat nervously states, "Bilbo Baggins… at your service."

She nods as if in recognition, and then inquires, "Thorin… Oakenshield?" Her voice is low and slightly raspy, the voice of a person who rarely speaks.

"Yes," replies Bilbo, "He's here. Would you like to see him?"

The stranger nods again, and Bilbo swings the door open wider against every bit of common sense he has. He has no real reason to be afraid, and yet there is something about this person that makes her emanate an air of danger; some sort of negative aura.

He shakes the thought from his mind and leads her into the dining room after tightly closing the door.

Everyone bears the same look of surprise as they enter - except Gandalf, that is, who is sitting in the corner, shrouded in smoke from his pipe and looking quite content.

_Of course_, Bilbo thinks. _It's his doing, sending this stranger. Perhaps she is to replace me. _An unpleasant feeling pervades him at that thought, and he has to remind himself that he really doesn't want to go on this adventure.

"Lys," says Gandalf warmly, standing up and walking over to her. He places a hand on her shoulder. "I'm glad you arrived safely."

Bilbo notices her whole body tense up at his touch. "Who are you?"

"I am Gandalf," the wizard replies. "I have been… watching you for some time, and I decided that it was high time to bring you home."

"Home," whispers Lys, then, slightly louder, "But I've never been here."

"Ah, but you belong here," says Gandalf gravely. He turns towards the mystified dwarves. "This is Lys Kent."

Lys surveys them warily as they, in turn, stand up and introduce themselves in the conventional manner. After all the bowing and at-your-service-ing is over, Gandalf addresses Thorin. "Perhaps you had better tell her about the quest."

Thorin furrows his brow. "Gandalf, you can't mean…"

"And why not?" interrupts Gandalf. "I believe you may find her to be very useful."

Thorin studies the newcomer with critical interest. She definitely seems more suited to an adventure than Bilbo, however, he feels some sort of instinctive distrust towards her. She is not in any way menacing, and yet some sort of violence radiates from her. And the conversation between her and Gandalf was definitely very strange. Where exactly is she from? And who is she?

"What quest?" the young woman asks, fixing her eerie pale gaze on him.

Thorin inhales deeply. "Sit down," he says, gesturing towards an empty chair. She settles onto it, drawing up her knees and wrapping her wiry arms around them, and listens attentively as, for the second time that evening, Thorin recounts the tale of Erebor and its destruction.

Lys remains silent for a few moments when he is done, then says, "So you're dwarves."

"Yes," replies Thorin with a touch of indignation.

"But there's humans here too?" inquires Lys, eyes flashing towards Gandalf, who has resumed smoking in the corner.

"Yes," repeats Thorin, "There are many speaking races in Middle-earth."

"And you've got dragons, too."

"Unfortunately," Thorin agrees grimly.

Lys considers this. If she is amazed at all by the existence of dwarves and dragons, she does not show it.

"So, do you want me along on your… quest?"

"That depends," replies Thorin slowly. "What skills do you have?"

"I fight," replies Lys.

There is a quiet vehemence in these simple words that fills the whole room with a sense of power.

Thorin wonders at the strange wording of the statement: not "I can fight" but "I fight" - as if it is a way of life rather than an ability.

"Do you have your weapon with you?" he asks, mentally going through the members of his company who might be able to spare a sword or a knife.

To his surprise, Lys nods. "I always do." She holds up her fists.

A ripple of soft laughter runs through the group of dwarves, expressing… amusement? Astonishment? Contempt?

"Lassie," chuckles Dwalin, "You'll not be able to beat an orc with those."

Lys turns towards him. "An orc?"

Dwalin gives a painfully accurate description of said creature, aided by comments and interjections from the others.

"They carry spears, bows, and swords - often curved scimitars," he finishes. "Pray tell me how you would fight one of them weaponless." He looks at her challengingly, arms crossed.

"I'd start by not picking a fight with it," replies Lys impassively.

"Orcs do not need much encouragement to fight," intervenes Thorin darkly. "They love to kill."

"Then my second instinct would be to run."

Dwalin exchanges a brief glance with Thorin. _I thought she was a fighter._

"Say you were cornered."

"Well," says Lys, "I suppose they wouldn't be shooting arrows from a short distance, so it would be pretty easy to duck under whatever weapon they used, and then you'd have the whole back exposed to you. I would probably go for the neck with a knife-hand strike, knock him out instantly, or you could move in and catch the arm, and then the possibilities are endless. Simplest would be to go straight for the face. Elbow, palm, fist, whatever you like. Or you could take him down and go from there. Or, if you want to be posh, you could do an arm lock and either break the arm or just lead him around like a dog on a leash."

The dwarves stare at her. She has said the whole thing very matter-of-factly, making small gestures as she imagines the scenario. Now she looks around at them, as expressionless as ever.

Dwalin still has his arms crossed and bears a look of extreme skepticism. Thorin is regarding her with renewed interest, albeit also somewhat skeptical.

"I don't understand," says Bofur.

Kíli jumps up, drawing his sword. "Show us!"

Lys unfolds from the chair and rises to her feet as he advances towards her.

The dwarves stir uneasily. "Kíli, leave the sheath on," says Thorin.

"Yes, I don't want any bloodstains on my carpet, thank you very much," adds Bilbo from the doorway where he has been standing, unnoticed.

"No," says Lys. She looks towards Bilbo. "There will be no bloodstains." She gestures for Kíli to attack her.

The dwarves stand up and grasp their weapons apprehensively.

Kíli glances at Thorin for approval, then steps forward and swings at Lys's midsection.

His sword cuts through empty air as she drops down, performs a roll and comes up behind him, all within a second. She strikes his neck with the side of her hand and he lurches to the side, stunned.

Fíli, who has followed his brother. has decided to attack her as well and is already swinging his sword towards her neck when she spins around, ducks under the strike, and advances diagonally so as to place both hands on his arm. Without much apparent effort from Lys, Fíli gives a slight gasp and collapses at the waist, his sword clattering to the ground. Lys pushes slightly harder, turning, and he staggers around her in a half-circle, knees bent and back hunched over, evidently in pain.

A number of angry dwarves spring forward to pull her away. She does not resist, however, and once Thorin notices that Fíli has straightened up and is grinning, albeit rubbing his arm, he relaxes his tight grip on Lys's shoulder.

"So you can fight," he says.

They look at each other for a moment, the tension almost tangible between the two figures that each radiate their own type of power, then Thorin turns and retrieves the abandoned contract. He hands it to Lys, telling her to read it.

She raises her eyebrows as the parchment unrolls to its full length in her hands, then, sucking in her cheeks and squinting slightly in the dim light, begins to read. After a few minutes of restless silence, she looks up.

"I only made it through a few lines. Could you just tell me what it says?"

Faintly amused, Thorin summarizes the contract for her. She does not react to the mention of probable death, however, seems startled when he states that she will receive a share of the treasure.

"I don't need any treasure."

Thorin shrugs, ignoring the surprised murmurs from all around. "Of course you don't have to. But that can be decided later. Will you sign it?"

Once again the room falls silent.

"Yes," says Lys.

Thorin produces a quill pen. She somewhat awkwardly takes it - with her left hand, he notices - and scrawls a hasty signature on the rough parchment before returning contract and pen to him.

There is a moment of silence, then Thorin says, "Well, I suppose we'd all better get some sleep."

As the dwarves disperse throughout the hobbit-hole in search of places to sleep, Lys approaches Gandalf.

He stands up and faces her, taking his pipe out of his mouth.

"I suppose you have a few questions."

She nods. "You said you were… watching me." Her eyes narrow. "I don't understand."

"Well," begins Gandalf, "One of the responsibilities of the Istari is to keep an eye one those inhabitants of Middle-earth who have been… misplaced, so to speak."

"Istari?" she asks when he pauses.

"The conventional term would be wizards," he explains. "There are five of us."

"All right," she says. "So I've been misplaced?"

He nods. "Born into the wrong universe. Usually we do not intervene unless it is absolutely necessary, because the transfer of matter from one universe to another can create some complications. In your case, however, it was… necessary."

Her eyes wander to the side, a slightly perturbed look on her face, and then she changes the subject.

"What is Bilbo? Is he a dwarf too?"

Gandalf smiles. "No, he is a hobbit. A strange folk they are, and perhaps I have overestimated them."

"He's not coming. But he was supposed to," deduces Lys, looking at Gandalf once more.

He nods. "He had just refused to sign the contract before you came. Very good timing, actually. Although I had hoped for you to be the fifteenth and not the fourteenth member."

"He wants to, doesn't he?" asks Lys. "I saw him, standing at the doorway the whole time, listening. He left when I signed it. He looked… sad."

Gandalf sighs. "Well, perhaps Mr. Baggins will change his mind. Do you think you can sleep?"

Lys shrugs, her expression one of resignation to many sleepless nights. "I'll try."

They wish each other goodnight and, like the others, go in search of an unoccupied bed or chair in which to spend the night.


	2. Waking Up

Lys's eyes fly open at the first sounds of awakening within the hobbit-hole. The day has not yet broken, and only the grey hint of a dawn to come is slowly making its way into all the dark corners of the living-room.

She gets up from the armchair in which she has been sprawled all night and stretches.

Kíli and Fíli are still fast asleep on the sofa, while Ori snores quietly in another chair. Judging by the faint noises from other rooms, however, some of the other dwarves are awake.

Lys steps over to the window and lays her fingers upon the cool glass, suddenly fascinated by the way the pale light makes dark sillhouettes of her fingers, the way her breath fogs up the windowpane ever so slightly…

Footsteps tear her from her reverie, and she turns to see Thorin entering the room.

"Good morning," he says with a brief nod, and then, glancing at the three others, "Wake them up, would you? Then you can come help me pack." He walks out of the room, leaving Lys wondering how on earth one wakes someone up.

"Kíli," she says, standing over him. No response. "Kíli, wake up." He stirs slightly, but remains fast asleep. Lys reaches out and shakes his shoulder gently. He mumbles something and lethargically swats at her hand, eyes still closed. Lys keeps shaking. "Oi, Kíli!"

His eyes open and she hastily steps back, snatching her hand to herself.

"Thorin said I should wake you up. We're leaving soon."

Kíli blinks sleepily. "Right."

He begins to kick Fíli, and Lys goes in search of Thorin.

A warm sunlight filters through Bilbo's window, streaming onto his face. He groans and turns over, then, giving in, sits up with a huge yawn. He stops mid-yawn and mid-stretch as, quite suddenly, the memory of last night's events floods into his mind with staggering violence. He slumps forward and buries his head in his hands. He had gone to bed half hoping that he would wake up and it would all be a dream. Maybe it was, he tells himself, not very convincingly, as he slowly pushes off the covers and swings his feet over the edge of the bed. Of course it wasn't. They were here, and they offered him an adventure, and he refused… but why does he feel so damn unhappy about it? He doesn't regret it… does he? _Bilbo, _he tells himself sternly, _you would have regretted it quite a lot more if you had gone. Anyhow, it's much too late now._

As he reaches to open the door he sees a slip of paper that has apparently been pushed under it from the outside. He stoops and picks it up with a sense of anticipation.

_If you change your mind, _it reads, _I'm sure fifteen is alright too._

The handwriting is small and cramped; a messy, detached scrawl which slants to the left and wanders crookedly across the page. There are a considerable amount of ink smudges for such a small amount of words, as if someone has dragged their hand across them. For some reason, Bilbo can only associate it with one person: Lys, the newcomer… his replacement.

His heart pounds. Has he changed his mind? _Of course not, _he tells himself, _you… _but at that moment the dull, respectable Baggins part of him is drowned out and his Tookish nature takes over. This, he decides as he changes and stuffs a few belongings into a knapsack, is the only way to get rid of the nagging unpleasant feeling. And so, within a matter of minutes Bilbo Baggins is slamming his beautiful green door and taking off down Bag End - entirely without his pocket-handkerchief.

He is quite out of breath by the time he reaches them.

"Wait," he calls as he comes to a bend in the road and sees them up ahead, "Wait!"

They halt, ponies shuffling, heads turning, and look on with astonishment as he barrels towards them.

"I've… I've…" he pants, trying to think of what to say. "I've changed my mind."

Balin smiles and welcomes him into the Company.

Thorin fixes him with a piercing gaze, then simply utters, "Give him a pony."

Bilbo protests but is abruptly lifted up by Fíli and Kíli and dropped onto the back of one of the furry beasts, and without further delay the party continues on its way.

Bilbo's pony falls in line behind Lys's. She turns her head and they exchange a wordless glance. She does not smile, simply regards him with those pale eyes, and Bilbo feels something about her that is beyond the negative aura he had sensed when she was standing on his doorstep. The glance is brief, however, and soon he is drawn into the rhythm of the ponies' hooves and the gentle swaying of the beast beneath him, gazing contentedly at the ever-shifting pattern of the shadows cast by the rustling leaves.

"So where are you from?"

Lys looks up, startled. Kíli and Fíli have ridden up on either side of her and are regarding her with curiosity.

"I'm from London," she replies, tensing slightly at being trapped between the two, then adds, "It's in a different universe."

They exchange an amazed glance across her, then Kíli asks, "And how exactly did you get here?"

Lys seems to hesitate for a fraction of a second before answering, "A giant eagle."

"Just plucked you up, just like that? Or did you know it was coming?"

"No. It… yeah, plucked me off the street."

"And you haven't got dwarves or elves or anything in your universe?" asks Fíli, recalling Lys's conversation with Thorin the night before.

"No. Just humans."

"How dull," remarks Kíli.

They ponder this for a moment, then Lys inquires, "Elves?"

Kíli chuckles. "Yeah. We've never seen one. Probably just as well. Uncle Thorin hates them."

"He has good reason to," Fíli reminds him. "They have always forsaken us in times of darkness, and sat idly by and watched as our kingdoms were taken over by orcs and dragons."

Lys looks at him, then says in her quiet voice, "Tell me about your kingdoms."

And so, as they ride along the winding path under the fir trees and blue sky, Fíli weaves with carefully chosen words the ancient tales of the glory of Khazad-dûm, tells of vast halls filled with glittering stones, the sound of hammers ringing, of legions of dwarves seeking to set free the gems from the rock, to release them so that they could capture the light and throw it back in rays of many colours, creating a place of beauty out of the dark caverns. Tells of the over-eager delving for mithril, true-silver, which eventually brought forth Durin's Bane, the Balrog, a shadow wreathed in flame, bringing death and destruction to that place of wonder. Of the solace brought by Erebor, incomparable to Khazâd-dûm but glorious and magnificent - until the coming of Smaug. And he tells of the hope that all of them still bear that they might one day regain the glory and splendour that the race of Khazâd once owned.

They set up camp on a small hill surrounded by fields and forests. Kíli and Fíli are given first watch, and they settle down next to the fire, leaning against a stony face of the hillside while the others lie down to sleep. Gandalf, however, remains awake, seated on a rock a little ways away.

The two gaze out at the dark landscape, which lies under an indigo, star-pierced sky.

"Adventure," murmurs Kíli, and Fíli hums in agreement, knowing what his brother means. He, too, is excited about the quest, but he is also more aware of the dangers that lie in wait than Kíli is. And he fears for his brother - fears for them all.

His thoughts wander as the night draws on, turning from the dragon… to the two newly acquired members… to Thorin… to Mirkwood that he knows they must traverse…

A lanky figure rises from among the sleeping forms and makes its way towards them. Lys. She drops into a crosslegged position on the other side of the fire.

"Hey there," says Kíli cheerily, but keeping his voice muted. "Can't sleep?"

Lys shakes her head and stretches her long thin fingers towards the flames, even though the night is not particularly cold. The fire casts a reddish glow on her face, contrasting with the green of her eyes.

The two brothers exchange a glance. Since their conversation with her earlier, they have discovered only one further fact about her - namely that she doesn't eat meat, or anything that comes from animals for that matter, because she believes it cruel to cage them up.

Beyond curiosity about her, Fíli feels a slight distrust towards her which he cannot explain, and which he knows his exuberant brother does not share.

"Why do you wear those bracelets?" Kíli asks. "And aren't they made of leather?"

Lys glances at the bracelets of different sizes that cover her right wrist. "It's not real leather." She pauses, then shrugs. "No reason, really. I just like them."

Kíli nods, then all three look up as Bilbo gets up and stretches, then walks stiffly down to where the ponies are. Evidently, Lys is not the only one having trouble sleeping.

Suddenly, a piercing howl cuts through the air. Bilbo turns towards them, startled. "What was that?"

A mischievious gleam enters Kíli's eyes. "Orcs," he says. "Throat-cutters."

Fíli joins in. "The hills will be teeming with them."

Their prank is cut short by Thorin, who has come to take over the watch from his nephews. "You think a night-raid by orcs is a joke?"

"We meant nothing by it," says Kíli, but Thorin walks past them to the edge of the ridge upon which they are encamped and stares out into the night, his back turned.

Most of the dwarves have been woken by the howling and have gathered round, Bilbo joining them.

"Thorin has more cause than most to hate orcs," says Balin softly. Seeing everyone's eyes fixed on him, and remembering the two newcomers who know nothing of their history, he launches into the tale of the Battle of Azanulbizar, describing how Thrór was beheaded by Azog and Thráin later captured, tortured and killed, how Thorin had defended himself with an oaken branch and severed Azog's hand, how the battle had been won at the cost of countless dead.

There is a long silence when his narrative ends.

Bilbo breaks it. "What happened to Azog?"

"That filth died of his wounds long ago," replies Thorin, striding back towards the fire.

The rest of the Company returns to their bedrolls, and for the rest of the night they are undisturbed by whatever creatures might be lurking in the darkness.

The next few days pass pleasantly. Bilbo becomes more and more acquainted with the members of the Company, and Kíli and Fíli continue to talk to Lys, learning about her world in exchange for telling her more of the history of the dwarves, in which she seems interested, and general information about Middle-earth. She remains distant and reserved, but is not unfriendly, and after a few days Kíli gets the impression that a faint shadow of a smile sometimes creeps its way onto her grim face - but perhaps it is just an illusion.

He refrains from asking if she has a family, not because he knows it would be painful to be separated from them, but because even he can tell that she has never been close to anyone. The way she talks - or, rather, doesn't talk, the way she avoids proximity, let alone contact, point to the fact that she has been very alone in her world. He is saddened by this, for he cannot imagine having no one to share both grief and joy with. The dwarves of Erebor have been through many hardships and suffered innumerable losses, but they have always been together. And he - he has always had Fíli. He looks towards his brother, sunlight glinting off his golden hair, and tries not to think of the possibility that something might happen to him on this adventure, which he had never thought could end in anything but glory.

The fine weather does not last long. Several days into their journey, it begins to pour. The rain streams down from the dark grey sky, pattering on leaves and sending small streams running down the path. The ponies slosh laboriously through the muddy water, as miserable as their riders.

"Can't you do anything about this weather?" Dori asks Gandalf.

"It is raining, Master Dwarf," replies the wizard, "And it will continue to rain until it stops." This seems as good an answer as they are going to get.

Bilbo finds himself thinking wistfully of his cozy hobbit-hole, a fire in the fireplace and the kettle whistling.

_Oh, well, _he thinks, _This is what you bargained for, after all. And anyhow _- he pushes a dripping lock from his forehead - _a little rain is far better than an attack by… whatever nasty creatures might be out there. _He urges his lagging pony forward, hoping that the nasty creatures will leave them alone for now and the rest of their journey.


	3. Recoil

Nori glances over to the old, decrepit cottage in the middle of the clearing where they are to spend the night. Gandalf and Thorin stand under its partially existent roof, arguing about something.

Catching the words "The Hidden Valley", he sighs. So Gandalf is trying to convince Thorin to seek refuge with the Elves. That will never work. And he agrees - they need no help from them.

He sits down next to Ori, who is writing in his journal. His younger brother looks up with a quick smile, then continues writing. Nori gazes fondly at him, so concentrated on the pages in which he records their journey. It has, so far, been uneventful, but that is probably a good thing, he reflects, and also not likely to last long.

Presently Gandalf storms off. Ori watches him go, then turns to Nori with a worried expression. Nori shrugs. He'll probably come back… just hopefully before some sort of danger strikes.

Unfortunately they have no such luck. Later that night, Kíli and Fíli burst into the clearing and announce, distraught, that Bilbo has been captured by trolls.

As the dwarves seize their weapons and follow the lads towards the trolls' encampment, Nori notices that Lys is still unarmed.

"Lys," he says, clapping a hand on her shoulder. She whirls around and pushes his arm to the side with surprising strength before relaxing slightly. _Real fighter's reflexes_, he thinks, eyebrows rising slightly.

He pulls out the small knife he carries along with his sword and holds it out.

"Take this. You're going to need it."

Her reaction to the knife is equally surprising - she pulls away just a few inches as if frightened by it, eyes widening almost imperceptibly for a fraction of a second, then her impassive mask returns. She glances towards the others, all armed, and towards the three massive silhouettes visible through the trees, then warily accepts.

They form their plan of attack.

Kíli ventures into the clearing, sword in hand, and demands Bilbo's release. The trolls look at each other, bemused, then launch Bilbo towards Kíli, knocking him down.

The dwarves charge.

The clearing around the fire becomes a confusion of shouting dwarves, swinging their swords and axes, and trolls staggering around, bellowing with rage and pain and trying to catch them.

Nori catches a glimpse of Bilbo making his way through the chaos to rescue the ponies. Ori is making rapid but largely ineffective use of his slingshot. Lys is using the knife in a most inventive fashion - she sinks it into the back of a troll, then uses it to pull herself up so as to sit astride its shoulders. She removes the knife from the now bucking and writhing creature and is about to stab its eye when it plucks her off and hurls her across the clearing. A stone whizzes through the air and flies straight into its eye and it stumbles, roaring and clutching the injured orb as blood trickles down its back. Good old Ori.

Lys seems unharmed and rushes back into the midst of the fight, still gripping the knife. Choosing another troll, she advances unnoticed and suddenly slashes at the inside of its thick wrist, creating in one swift motion a long gash which releases a large amount of blood.

Nori decides to try this with his sword - but just at that moment the fighting around him ceases. Two of the trolls have recaptured Bilbo and are holding him as if to tear him apart, demanding that the dwarves put down their weapons.

After a few moments of Bilbo staring helplessly at them, Thorin angrily jams his sword into its sheath, and the rest of the Company do the same.

What follows is a very unpleasant night. Nori rotates slowly on the large spit that most of them are tied to, listening to the trolls argue about how to cook them, and thinks that they will probably be roasted to death before a decision is made.

He wishes he could exchange a word or a glance with his brothers, but they are invisible from his position. He knows Ori must be panicking, not as calm in the face of death as the others are. If only he could reassure him… but even if communication were enabled, that would not be possible. They are clearly doomed.

The spit completes another rotation and the troll that Lys injured comes into his view. It has a filthy rag bound around its wrist, stained with dark blood. That was some nice work she did with the knife.

The trolls' voices rise once more in dispute.

"Let's just hurry up and cook 'em!" growls one. "I don't fancy being turned to stone."

Nori's eyes widen. Of course! Trolls turn to stone in sunlight! He wonders how far off dawn is. Perhaps if they could delay being eaten until then… but how?

It seems the same idea has occured to Bilbo, for he suddenly exclaims, "Wait! You're making a terrible mistake!" He proceeds to instruct the trolls to skin the dwarves first, and Nori groans. Not that he could have thought of something better, but all the same…

One of the trolls is about to demonstrate with Bombur that dwarves are perfectly edible with their skins, when Bilbo tells them that Bombur is infected. In fact, he continues, they all have parasites. This provides for a lengthy discussion, and Nori almost dares to hope that they might be saved, but in the end the seemingly predominant troll sees through Bilbo's plan.

"You think we don't know what you're playing at?" He turns to his two companions. "He's trying to trick us!"

Bilbo stares at them, petrified. The game is up.

Suddenly a voice echoes through the forest.

"The dawn take you all!"

The trolls turn and gaze, bewildered, at a figure standing on a large rock, silhouetted against the rising sun - the rising sun! It is dawn, and Gandalf has come back!

He smites the rock with his staff and it breaks in two, allowing the light of the sun to stream through the fissure and onto the trolls.

With howls of dismay they cover their faces, but it is too late. A stony covering travels across their skin until with one final crack and jerk they stand still, frozen in place like grotesque statues, never to move again.

After freeing each other, the dwarves go in search of the trolls' cave, hoping to find some weapons and supplies. As anticipated, it is nearby - a wide, sloping tunnel which leads to an underground chamber infested with flies, cobwebs and a horrible stench. They all file in after Gandalf - except for Lys, who hangs back at the entrance.

Nori approaches her with his knife, which he has recovered from the trolls.

"You'd better keep this in case we meet any more nasty things." He glances towards the cave. "Unless you can find your own weapon in there."

Her eyes dart to the dark tunnel mouth and she shakes her head, then fixes her gaze on the knife in Nori's outstretched palm, nostrils flaring slightly as if she suddenly lacks air. She stares at it for a few long seconds, and Nori frowns at the tenseness which pervades her body and positively radiates from her. She takes the knife without meeting his eyes, and he turns to join the others, wondering at her strange behaviour. _Perhaps simply an aversion to weapons?_, he thinks, but she had no trouble using the knife and in fact seemed quite experienced. He dismisses the thought. After all, she is from a different universe. Mysteries will always remain.

Their foraging of the cave proves successful. There are a great deal of weapons and even a small chest of gold coins. Thorin reluctantly takes an elven-made sword, and Kíli finds a few extra arrows.

Ascending back into the daylight, they are about to set off on their way when the sound of something rapidly approaching reaches their ears. They draw together and brandish their new-found weapons. Lys finds herself in the middle of a circle of dwarves, along with Bilbo, who is nervously holding the small blade presented to him by Gandalf just a few moments ago.

There is a particularly loud crash and something hurtles through the bushes in front of them, accompanied by a hoarse cry of, "Thieves! Fire! Murder!". It stops abruptly and they are faced with a sort of sleigh pulled by a team of rabbits, on which rides a peculiar, disheveled figure dressed in brownish tones, with a wild, panicked look in his eyes.

"Radagast!" exclaims Gandalf. "Radagast the Brown." His tone is one of familiarity, and Bilbo recalls him telling them about the other wizards, during that awful rainy spell.

Radagast announces that he had been searching for Gandalf, and the two wizards withdraw and begin to talk in low, earnest voices. Bilbo casts several worried glances in their direction. Gandalf had seemed rather concerned about Radagast being there, and Radagast, well, he had certainly seemed very… perturbed. He cannot make out what they are saying, however, so he simply waits in the uneasy silence that surrounds them.

It is broken by a faint, ragged howl, and Bilbo looks around in alarm.

"Was that a wolf? Are there wolves here?"

Another howl echoes through the trees, this time louder.

"No," replies Bofur, frowning as he tries to figure out which direction the howls are from, "That is not a wolf."

Bilbo is still considering whether this is good or bad when a harsh growl rings out from just behind the group and they spin around to face a huge, hideous creature that springs towards them - and falls dead at Thorin's feet. Another one follows it and is pierced mid-leap by an arrow from Kíli.

"Wargs," says Thorin grimly, pulling his sword out of the carcas. "There must be an orc pack nearby."

"Orc pack?!" echoes Bilbo incredulously, heart pounding. Not only are they surrounded by creatures far worse than wolves, but now he is being told that those awful orc things travel in packs?

Ori declares panickedly that the ponies have bolted, and a sense of helplessness washes over Bilbo. Have they escaped from the trolls just to be torn apart by these monsters?

Everyone turns to Radagast in surprise when he offers to distract the wargs by getting them to chase him.

"These are Gundabad wargs," says Gandalf. "They will outrun you."

"And these," replies Radagast, "Are Rustabel rabbits. I'd like to see them try."

Without another word, he jumps onto his sleigh and takes off. The dwarves also make for the edge of the forest, but in a different direction. The trees begin to thin and shortly they emerge onto the wide, grassy plain, dotted with large rocks and stunted trees, which they must cross. The howling of the wargs draws near and Radagast shoots across the plain some distance in front of them at a remarkable speed. His plan seems to be working so far. Led by Gandalf, they run across the plain, trying to keep close to the boulders and out of sight of the wargs, whose numbers are ever increasing. About halfway across they halt under the outcropping of a large clump of rock as Radagast thunders past again. It seems that most of the wargs have been drawn away… Suddenly there is a snarling just above them. A warg - mounted by an orc, judging by the two sets of breathing - is prowling back and forth on top of the rock. Thorin looks at Kíli and gives a slow nod. Kíli silently draws an arrow from his sheath, fits it to his bow, and then jumps out, whirls around and releases it. The arrow is quickly followed by another, slaying both the warg and its rider.

The agonized howls of the warg have captured the attention of the other orcs, and all across the plain the dwarves perceive the beasts galloping towards them. They turn so as to face all directions, once more instinctively forming a circle around the more poorly armed members of the Company, and prepare to fend off the attack.

They do this successfully at first, but more and more wargs surround them and their circle grows ever tighter.

Lys suddenly runs out into the open and a warg immediately barrels towards her. "Lys!" roars Thorin, unable to intervene as he is currently fighting off two of the beasts. Has she gone mad? She is only armed with a small knife. He sees from the corner of his eye that she remains immobile until it is inches away from her, then drops to the ground. The creature on top of her suddenly crumples, and she emerges with dark bloodstains on her arms and face. The warg flops onto its side, revealing a long slit down its torso. Thorin successfully kills the two wargs he was fighting and is faced with another onslaught. They seem to be endless.

The situation begins to look hopeless when Gandalf, who has momentarily disappeared, shouts for them to follow him. With one last sword-blow and arrow they take off again and join the wizard behind another rock.

"Where are you leading us?" growls Thorin. Gandalf, pointing the Company in the direction they must go, does not answer. Thorin glances back at their pursuers, then brings up the rear of the pack of fleeing dwarves. Their only options right now are to trust the wizard or to stand their ground against the orcs - and the latter does not seem very promising.

They come to an opening in the ground - the mouth of a tunnel. One by one the dwarves jump down it as Thorin defends the entrance with broad sword-strokes.

Lys, with her long legs, has been running near the front of the pack, but she halts while the others enter the tunnel. Gloín grabs her wrist as he jumps down with a gruff "Come on, then", dragging her down with him.

The underground passage is fairly small, and as the breathing of the dwarves slows down to normal after the chase, Lys's gradually becomes quicker, her pale eyes darting around, to the knife in her hands, to the entrance from which pours both light and the sounds of continued fighting.

The wargs are swarming around the opening, and time seems to be running out. Fíli tumbles into the cave, followed by Kíli, and then finally Thorin. All of the Company is in the cave, but the wargs are trying to enter as well. Thorin raises his sword, ready to fend them off once more.

They hear the sound of hoofbeats drumming over the ground above them, then the twang of a bowstring rings out and a warg pierced with an arrow falls down the tunnel and rolls at their feet. The rest of the wargs flee, and the hoofbeats fade away as quickly as they have come.

Thorin pulls out the arrow and examines it. "Elves," he says, his voice heavy with disgust. The dwarves look around at each other. Saved by elves, indeed! This is a blow to their honour.

"I can't see where the tunnel leads," calls Bofur, who was the first to enter and has peered around the corner. "Do we follow it?"

"Of course," is the collective answer, so they begin to walk in single file through the dim passage.

Gloín can hear Lys breathing heavily behind him. He recalls that she hadn't entered the trolls' lair, either, and wonders why being underground seems to bother her so much. He feels much safer here than out on the empty plain, exposed to their attackers. Humans are decidedly strange.

After several twists and turns, a faint, steady sound becomes audible. A few more bends and it is discernible as the sound of running water. The floor and walls of the tunnel grow slightly damp as it grows louder, and suddenly they turn a corner and are left speechless at the sight that meets their eyes.

Stony cliffs painted with lush green trees fall sharply into a deep valley. Down the cliffs run countless waterfalls, large and small, filling the air with mist that glows golden in the sunlight. A bridge arcs gracefully across the valley, leading to an almost ethereal-looking city of arches and spires and pointed rooves, infinitely delicate stonework forming a place of surreal beauty.

"Rivendell," whispers Bilbo in an awed voice. But Thorin scowls, and so does Gloín. So Gandalf has led them to the elves after all. As if they will help them - as if they need their help! He looks around at the others. Some of the younger dwarves seem to be struggling between admiration of the beauty of Rivendell and the loathing they are expected to have of its inhabitants. Lys is studying it, eyes slightly narrowed in the bright sunlight, but as always bears no expression.

They descend into the valley and cross the narrow bridge, slightly dizzied by the water rushing, white and foaming, beneath their feet. As they enter the courtyard, passing two tall, serene statues, an elf emerges from the large doorway in front of them. Gandalf addresses him as Lindir, and asks for Elrond.

"Lord Elrond is not here," replies Lindir, but at that moment the clatter of hooves draws swiftly near and a company of riders, Elrond at its head, files into the courtyard and surrounds the dwarves, weaving a tight circle about them. The elves observe them warily from atop their horses, and the dwarves glare back up at them, shuffling uneasily with their hands on the hilts of their weapons.

Elrond dismounts and greets Gandalf warmly. It turns out that he had been hunting a pack of orcs - the same one that had been hunting the dwarves. Gloín lets out a huff of breath. So they are doubly in their debt, for aid that they did not need.

He cannot help, however, feeling grateful for the food and lodging they receive, observing with some satisfaction as Lys eats the first significant meal since the beginning of their journey, seemingly enjoying the strange elvish food which consists mainly of leaves and berries and roots.

Despite their antagonism towards the elves, the dwarves relax and are soon laughing and talking loudly, relieved that nothing more has come of their misadventures so far than perhaps a few broken ribs and bloody scratches. Soon they will be on their way again, one step closer to Erebor.


	4. New Shoes

Having eaten her fill, Lys looks around for a few minutes at the dwarves, talking and laughing, then silently gets up, places Nori's knife on the spot where she was sitting, and slips out of the room.

She finds herself in a long, open-roofed corridor composed of many arches, which make the soft light fall in regular stripes over the smooth marble floor upon which her footsteps fall.

She looks down at her feet. They are still clad in her extremely battered canvas sneakers. Sudden memories pound against her brain of staring down at these same shoes, staring down at…

She kicks them off and takes off running, bare feet slapping on the stone, long and thin and pale, across the stripes of light and darkness which come and go like her breathing, like her heartbeat, like her pulse.

She ends up in a sort of courtyard. There is a fountain in the middle of it and she stops abruptly, staring at it motionlessly, letting the soft rush of water fill her ears.

Footsteps approach. She does not turn, afraid to meet the eyes of whoever it is, afraid of what they might see. They stop next to her, a figure entering the corner of her vision, and somehow she knows who it is. Elrond.

She can feel a sort of serenity radiate from his presence, and at the same time she knows that, like Gandalf, he sees everything. He knows. A slight tremor runs through her at that thought, and her breath catches in her throat. Then she realizes that this does not bother her as much as it should. He knows. But unlike her, he does not judge.

"You are weary." His voice erases all trace of panic left inside of her. It is calm and gentle and… kind. And oh, how true are his words.

"I will show you where you can rest."

He turns and she follows him, her flight instincts no longer attemping to surface. He knows. But she doesn't mind.

The room he shows her is large, and light, and bare except for a bed and a washstand. He closes the door and she stands alone for a long moment, inhaling, exhaling. Then she walks over to the window, draws the curtains and proceeds to strip to the waist and wash in the dimness that surrounds her, troll and warg blood creating black spirals in the clear water of the washbasin. She removes her filthy, ragged jeans as well, then goes over to the bed, slips into the thin sleeping garment spread out on it, and crawls under the covers.

Lys is just surfacing from sleep when Thorin cautiously pushes open the door, barely woken by his knock. She turns over in bed and sits up suddenly at the sight of him, eyes widening momentarily before she recognizes him and relaxes. He feels a pang of guilt at waking her. Her hair is disheveled and her eyes slightly swollen with sleep, something he has never observed before. In fact, he has rarely seen her actually sleeping.

"We're leaving," he informs her. "The elves do not know. We must be quick and silent."

She nods, pushes back the covers and steps onto the floor. He remains in the doorway as she walks through a thin tendril of early morning sunlight, spilling through the crack between the curtains, over to the washstand, white nightgown hanging loosely from her bony shoulders, hair falling like a tangled waterfall down her back. She suddenly looks so fragile, regardless of the lean muscles that he knows cover her skeleton, her grim, unforgiving stare, the deadly precision with which she wounds and kills. Right now she is a child roused from sleep.

She turns and he is pierced by those pale green eyes that he just cannot trust, and the image is gone - she is no child.

She looks at him expectantly, hovering in front of the pile of clothing on the washstand.

"Right. I'll be outside," says Thorin, and closes the door.

Lys hurriedly slips into the clothes set out for her. Last are a pair of boots. They are tall, but light and supple, made of something she can't quite identify. She pulls them on and makes for the door. Noticing a cloak hanging on the back of it she grabs that too, then opens the door and steps into the hallway beside Thorin.

She falls into stride behind him as they silently make their way through the corridors of Rivendell to join the others and continue their journey.

Deafening claps of thunder echo all around as the rain beats down, driving hard and bitter cold, making the mountainside slick and even more treacherous. A biting, howling wind has lifted as well, so strong that it sometimes threatens to pry the travelers from their precarious path over the Misty Mountains.

They clamber laboriously, clinging with raw fingers to the rough, sharp rocks, as the storm worsens by the minute.

Suddenly a huge silhouette looms up close by, a humanoid figure as tall as the mountains themselves. Slowly, jerkily, it reaches down, lifts a huge boulder and throws it, causing the mountainside to reverbate once more with what is not thunder but the sound of stone giants at war. They have walked into the midst of one of their battles.

More figures arise all around them, moving with slow gargantuan strength, hurling boulders and striking each other with their fists. One boulder lands on a ledge above them and brings several tons of rock crashing past the dwarves.

"We must find shelter!" roars Thorin, but it seems it may be too late. Suddenly the Company is sundered as the very rock which bears them begins to move, prying itself apart… they are clinging to the knees of one of the stone giants!

What follows is an eternity of holding on for dear life, sailing through the rain as the giant moves, trying not to think of the possibility of getting crushed against another mountain or giant, and of the question of how they will be reunited with the others. But reunited they are - and nearly crushed in the process, as well. One slab of rock moves rapidly towards the other, picking up speed… and stops just before collision, hurling its riders back to their companions, and they continue their journey against all odds.

By some chance - or some misfortune, as it turns out - they find a large cave in which to take shelter. It is decidedly empty, so they settle down to get some rest, Thorin having forbidden a fire.

The storm has quieted down, and the Company appears to be fast asleep. Bilbo listens for a few more moments, then, with all the stealth of a hobbit, gets up, packs his few belongings, and begins to tiptoe gingerly through the cave strewn with sleeping figures. He has just reached the entrance when a voice stops him.

"Where are you going?" Of course - Bofur is on watch. He had forgotten that.

He slowly turns to face him, and the two converse in hushed voices, unaware that two other pairs of eyes are open, staring into the darkness - one piercing blue, roused by the muted sounds, the other pale green, having been open all night, unaccustomed to sleep.

Both hear Bilbo's words of returning to Rivendell, of not belonging with the Company. However, neither interferes. Bilbo is about to step out of the cave when Bofur notices that his sword is glowing blue.

At the same time, Thorin feels a faint tremor in the ground beneath him. He jumps up and wakes the others, but within a few panicked seconds it is too late. A fissure opens rapidly in the rock and they all tumble into the dark bowels of the mountain.

They land on a hard surface - a wooden platform, they realize, and then the goblins are upon them. Hordes of the foul creatures swarm all around them, and the dwarves, still stunned by their sudden fall, are unable to fight them off.

They are seized and hurried along a path that winds through the mountain. They turn a corner and a grotesque, eerie sight meets their eyes - a huge cavern, lined with flimsy wooden structures, flickering with thousands of torches… and swarming with tens of thousands of goblins.

At the end of the platform upon which they stand is a throne bearing an immense, revolting creature - the king of the goblins of the Misty Mountains.

Upon his command they are disarmed and questioned about their purpose. But Thorin will not reveal their quest… not even when the goblin king decides to revert to torture.

The goblin king announces that he will torture the dwarves, and dread overwhelms Thorin. He does not fear the pain, but he does not wish for the others to endure it. And he is sure that they will - he does not doubt their loyalty. As for the hobbit and the human, however… will they talk? He looks around for them, but instead catches sight of Kíli and Fíli exchanging a glance, meaning to reassure each other but unable to conceal their fear. Red-hot anger pulses through him. They do not deserve this. He must do something, anything! He is about to call out, but Lys beats him to it.

"Wait."

It is not a plea, it is a command, and all movement ceases as everyone is compelled to obey the cold voice radiating through the cavern.

The goblin king is the first to react. "What have we here?" he muses. "What is a little human girl doing with you lot? Well, let's hear what she has to say."

He peers down at her with utter condescendence.

"I offer to fight one of you," says Lys. "If he wins, you do what you like with us. If I win, you let us go."

The goblin king pulls back in surprise, then begins to laugh.

Thorin considers this in silence. If she wishes to sacrifice herself, why not? They are probably all going to die anyways. Looking around at the goblins, he realizes that maybe Lys has more of a chance than he thinks. Most of them are scrawny and hunched-over, flabs of soft flesh hanging off their bones in the place of muscle. The reason they were able to overpower the dwarves was that they had the element of surprise on their side, not to mention their numbers… and of course the ugly bone knives they all carry, once the dwarves were captured.

"Very well," says the goblin king. He watches as Lys allows herself to be pushed roughly through the crowd, then he raises his head and calls, "Grimog!"

The wooden platform creaks and a looming figure emerges from the shadows behind the throne. Thorin's heart sinks. They have a champion. Grimog is the size of a man, slightly taller than Lys and much broader, huge muscles bulging under pockmarked skin. A long, jagged knife hangs at his hip. This is no ordinary goblin - this is a trained fighter.

The goblin king regards Grimog with smug satisfaction, then points at Lys.

"This," he says, and the scorn dripping from his voice makes Thorin's blood boil, "is your opponent."

Grimog looks at Lys and a large, ugly grin spreads across his face. He draws his knife.

"Put down your weapon!" roars Thorin suddenly, feeling the knife of his captor dig into his throat as he strains forward. "She is unarmed!"

The king turns to him in surprise. "If the wench wishes to arm herself, she may."

"I'll fight weaponless." Lys's cold voice cuts through Thorin's growing anger and he remains motionless, breath slowing and muscles relaxing ever so slightly. A small trickle of blood flows down his neck. They are all in Lys's hands now.

"Let the fight begin!" crows the goblin king.


	5. Flying Lessons

The two opponents dance around each other, Lys with upraised fists, Grimog with outstretched knife. Thorin notices that Lys is not looking at the weapon, but seems to be staring into Grimog's eyes.

After what seems an eternity, Lys darts forward. Grimog steps to the side and slashes at her throat with his knife - but she ducks, coming up on the outside of his arm. Grimog quickly resumes his stance, not lingering in the vulnerable position of imbalance after the strike - not, however, before Lys has delivered a sharp jab to his ribs. He tries again, and once more she darts into action. They move in circles, around each other, at each other, darting in and out, weaving an intricate, deadly choreography which unravels at a breakneck speed.

For all Grimog's bulk, he is not stupid - and not slow, either. He has every bit of Lys's speed and agility, and much more strength, not to mention his knife. Thorin begins to fear for Lys. For a moment he looks away, towards her boots lying on the floor - the tall, supple elvish boots she has removed before the fight - but his eyes are pulled back to her and Grimog.

Now he understands her words back at Bag End. She does not have the ability to fight. She fights. It seems as natural and effortless as breathing to her, every movement fluid yet precise, never missing its target. She only moves as much as is necessary, not wasting energy in any direction but towards her opponent's body. And yet Thorin does not see how she can win. She blocks all his strikes, and delivers countless blows to his ribs, gut and inner thighs, but none of them seem to inflict any real damage. The fight cannot go on indefinitely.

Suddenly Grimog slashes at her face, and Thorin's breath catches in his throat as Lys does nothing to defend herself, her eyes still locked with the goblin's. The reason immediately becomes evident: the knife does not reach her face at all, but with a smooth change of direction heads down towards her stomach. This Lys is prepared for - she steps forward diagonally, along the outside of Grimog's arm, grabbing it, and suddenly a crack is heard and the knife drops to the floor. Grimog grunts. His right arm now hangs limply. He growls angrily, but does not throw caution to the wind as Lys might have hoped. His left arm remains upheld in a defensive position in front of his face. They circle each other once more, calculating.

Having lost the use of one arm, Grimog decides to use a different weapon. In a blur of speed his right knee flies up, his left foot pivots and his right leg straightens into a powerful side kick.

At the last second, Lys moves an inch to the side, letting the goblin's heavy leg shoot past her. She traps it the second it is fully extended and at the same time steps into Grimog, her left leg slipping in front of his, she pivots and he is down. His instinct protects him, however, and his head does not touch the ground. Immediately Lys's knee descends upon his throat, he emits a wheezing rattle for a few seconds and then goes limp.

Goblins are not exceedingly intelligent. Within seconds, Lys is engulfed by a swarm of the infuriated creatures, who are forgetting the fact that the fight had been arranged and are simply perceiving that she has killed one of them. Their king does nothing to stop them.

Lys's voice rises above the clamour, uttering a single word: "Run!"

Yes, they could run, while the goblins are distracted, giving them a fair chance of escape… but Thorin will do no such thing. He retrieves his sword from where it has been cast on the ground, and charges at the goblins with a yell. The rest of the Company follow, and they fall upon Lys's attackers from behind.

At first it goes well - it is the goblins who are surprised this time. But the dwarves are still largely outnumbered, and several of them are unarmed.

Thorin fights his way through the goblins to Lys, who seems unharmed except for some cruel gashes on the outside of her forearms, probably from fending off the goblins' knives. She flashes him an angry glance, then turns to punch a goblin in the jaw and continues to fight.

The goblins keep coming, and the notion of escape grows ever fainter. A sound reaches Thorin's ears as he swings his sword - the ugly laughter of the goblin king. Sudden anger sweeps over him, a red-hot fury that pounds in all his veins. Insults, treachery… this cannot be borne.

Cleaving his way through the goblins, he emerges in front of their leader, who looks on in surprise as he runs towards him, sword raised.

His first blow falls on the goblin king's ankle, cutting deep into the soft flesh. With a howl of pain and rage he reaches out and lifts Thorin off the ground, but the dwarf hacks at his wrist until he drops him.

The grotesque creature falls to its knees, clutching its nearly severed hand, and Thorin drives his sword straight into its belly. Its eyes widen, then it topples forward. Thorin withdraws his sword and leaps to the side as it crashes down on top of several goblins, a large pool of dark, sticky blood seeping quickly from underneath it.

They must flee now, he realizes. The goblins are half-crazed by the death of their king, fighting wildly but blindly.

He leaps up onto the carcass of the goblin king and waves his sword. "To me!" he shouts, and the Company begin to fight their way towards him. Clambering in turn over the massive corpse, they reach the pathway beyond and begin their escape from the mountain.

It seems another eternity until they reach the sunlight - one of creaking, swaying pathways, of thousands of goblins, bodies dropping squealing into the darkness below, of torchlight glancing off bloodied swords, and throughout it all the frantic thinking of which way will lead them out. But they find the way, and with the first hints of daylight the goblins begin to fall back, crawling or scurrying back into their dark abode with wrathful backward glances at their escaped prisoners. The dwarves spill out onto a grassy, wooded slope, endlessly grateful for the air and sunlight on their skin.

Thorin faces Lys. "Why did you do that?"

"Why not?" she replies. "I won."

"Yes, but…" The barely concealed anger in his voice grows. "It was risky."

Lys shakes her head. "There was no risk. I knew I would win."

Thorin frowns.

"Well, perhaps not absolutely positive," she amends. "I've never fought a goblin before. I'm glad I got to, though."

Thorin's frown deepens, and he narrows his eyes. "You enjoyed it!" he accuses her incredulously.

"Of course. I could have had him at that first knife-slash, but that wouldn't have been any fun."

Lys takes advantage of Thorin's speechlessness to continue, "The question is why you didn't run when I told you to."

"You expected we would abandon you?!" His anger is now mixed with incredulity that she had actually meant for them to leave her there.

"We've abandoned Bilbo," she points out quietly.

"So you have," says another voice, and Thorin whirls around.

"Gandalf!" he exclaims at the sight of the figure emerging from the trees. Anger flows quickly back into him. "Where were you when we needed you?" he demands.

"Ah, but you didn't need me, did you?" replies the wizard. "All the same, I had hoped you'd take better care of my burglar," he continues before Thorin can properly think about that question.

"Take care of him!" he spits. "It's his responsibility to take care of himself! So he has failed to do that. If he's lucky he'll find his own way out. He never belonged with us anyways."

"You're right."

Thorin turns around again, and there is Bilbo, standing in the sunlight just outside the tunnel entrance. A small pang of guilt jabs at him - he had spoken out of anger, and he didn't really bear the hobbit any ill will, albeit considerable scorn.

"You're right," repeats Bilbo, walking towards them. "I don't belong here. I belong back in Bag End, in my home. But that's just it - I have a home, and you don't. And that's why I'm going to stay. To help you get your home back, if I can."

For a moment Thorin sees something more than a pitiful little hobbit in him - but the scorn soon returns. What help can Bilbo be to them? And his courage may fail him yet. Such a thing is easier said than done.

The throaty howl of a warg breaks the tense silence.

"Run!" commands Thorin, looking around at the faces of his Company. _So it begins again. Escaped from the goblins, only to be pursued by orcs. _

They fall in line behind him and Gandalf and begin to run, as they have done all their long lives.

Acrid smoke brings tears to Ori's eyes as he clings to his brother's feet for dear life, dangling off the burning pine tree that leans far out over the precipice. Lys, in turn, clutches his ankles, forming the last link of the chain of bodies suspended in mid-air.

Above him, clashes and yells ring out, the only testimony to the fight going on. Below him… he doesn't want to look down.

If only he could be up there fighting! He tries not to think of the fact that the others could be dying at the hands of the orcs while he hangs here, utterly helpless. But then again, he and Dori and Lys are probably going to die very soon too. Plummeting down the cliff, or being hewn by orcs on the ashen ground above - what difference does it really make?

A shudder runs through the chain, punctuated by a grunt from Dori, and Ori finds himself an inch lower in the air than before.

Dori is slipping.

A thrill of sheer panic jolts through Ori's body, and he forces down a hysterical laugh. This is it. They are going to fall.

"Dori, how much longer can you hold on?" calls Lys.

"I… I don't know," comes the strained reply, and Ori's panic deepens.

"I suppose it would help if you had less weight to bear," says Lys… and suddenly the pressure on Ori's ankles is gone.

"Mahal!" he gasps in a strangled voice, before talking is rendered impossible by the choking sensation in his throat.

"Did she just…" Dori trails off.

"Yes," manages Ori in a whisper, and grips his brother's feet more tightly.

The wind whistles in her ears, rushes through her hair and clothes, as she lets herself go limp and give in to the fall. She feels no fear, only a slight twinge of… sadness? Above her, the burning tree rapidly diminishes in size as she hurtles towards the ground that she cannot see - the ground of her new-found home.

And then a rushing sound, a shadow passes above her and something hard and strong, yet gentle, envelops her, causing her to change direction, now borne upwards and away.

What surrounds her is a pair of huge talons. Above her, the feathers of a giant eagle ripple in the wind. Wings span as far as she can see on either side. Gripping the talons, she turns over onto her belly. Fields and forests pass underneath her with dizzying speed. The powerful wings beat rhythmically, strokes pulsating like the blood that courses through her veins, pounding in her head. Once again, she is alive.

She sees that they are approaching a large rock which protrudes from the landscape, rising from the middle of a rapid stream.

The eagle sets her down on the rock and then lands, folding up its wings neatly.

"So, little one. We meet again. Have you not yet learned that you cannot fly?"

Lys meets its large, golden eyes. "You know that flying was never my purpose."

"Yes." After a moment's pause, the eagle spreads its wings once more. "There are still others to rescue."

Lys nods, then bows deeply. "Thank you… again."

The eagle bows its head in return, then takes off, sending currents of air swirling around Lys as she gazes after it.

The figure that the next eagle bears in its talons does not seem to be moving, and apprehension seizes Lys quite suddenly - growing to fear when it comes closer and she ascertains that it is indeed immobile, and it is Thorin.

Fear… she cannot remember the last time she felt fear. She has never had anything to be afraid of. But why is she afraid for Thorin?

The eagle sets him down on the rock. She walks over to him and kneels down. His eyes are closed, his face bloody and badly bruised. She reaches out and takes his wrist in her hand, her long, pale fingers curling around the thick limb, deftly finding a vein and feeling for a pulse.

Bilbo is the next to arrive, and he stands next to her. She remains kneeling, holding Thorin's wrist. "He's alive," she says. Bilbo allows himself to breathe.

The rest of the Company arrive quickly and gather round the three motionless figures - one lying, one kneeling, one standing.

And then Gandalf comes. Lys rises to her feet as he, in turn, kneels next to Thorin. He passes a hand over the pale, bloody face, and murmurs something unintelligible.

Sighs of relief echo all around as Thorin's eyes open.

"Where is Bilbo?" he asks, looking around anxiously until the hobbit emerges from his hiding-place behind Gandalf. Thorin slowly gets up and walks over to him.

"I doubted you," he says. "I thought you had no place among us." He pauses. "I have never been so wrong in my life."

And then he embraces the hobbit warmly, clasping him in his arms.

When they break apart, Thorin seems to notice something behind Bilbo. The hobbit turns and sees, far off in the distance, a looming, tapered shadow, wreathed with clouds - "The mountain…" he breathes.

"Yes," says Thorin, "That is our home."

After Bofur has quickly fashioned some crude shoes for Lys out of a few scraps of leather, the Company sets off once more. They clamber down the steep rock, ford the river and begin to walk across the wide fields that surround it, the image of the mountain still in their heads, driving them forward through whatever danger may come, to Erebor, their goal, their home - and they do not feel quite so lost anymore.


End file.
